


Deliverance

by The_Asset6



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Action-Movie Style Violence, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Very Brief Mention of Past Suicidal Thoughts, rated for language, sarcastic Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:58:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7229020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/pseuds/The_Asset6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers had always been idealistic, believing that if you fought the good fight you could come out on top somehow, or at the very least alive. That had long since been burned out of Bucky with fire through his veins and lightning in his head. Now all that remained was a disenchanted realist who knew that you could fight the good fight forever and never get one step ahead. Sometimes it wasn’t about what was good or bad but what was simply best for everybody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Goodbyes

**Author's Note:**

> I’m a veteran fic writer in numerous fandoms, but this is the first piece I’ve published on AO3. This story is complete and a new chapter will be posted every three to four days. 
> 
> This is a Bucky POV continuation of events from the final battle in Civil War through the mid-credits scene, so this may not be the fic for you if you have not seen the movie and are avoiding spoilers. Bucky’s unspoken thoughts are in italics. If you believe any tags need to be added, please let me know.
> 
> Please be advised that I have not written any specific pairings into this story—you may interpret things as you like. I hope you all enjoy!

It didn't hurt. Well, that was sort of a lie--it _did_ hurt, but not in the way Bucky expected it to. He didn't feel the sharp pain of a limb suddenly severed like he had falling from the train; he didn't feel the slow agony of flesh and muscle and bone being sawed off the way he had when Hydra removed what was left. No, the pain wasn't like any of that.

Losing his metal arm was like losing his mind, and for an immeasurable moment he lost track of all time and space.

It was pure engineering, really. The arm came off, the wires and artificial nerves severed into an incomplete circuit. With nowhere for the signals from his brain to go, the remains sparked and sizzled uselessly into the cold Siberian air. The incoming signals, though--that's where the trouble was. The sensors were still operational, damaged though they were, and they were pulling in stimuli regardless of the fact that the other part of his limb was God knew where. It caught the cold and the wind and the pressure of concrete against what was left of his shoulder, but everything was a chaotic haze. Without the outer casing and sensitive nerve endings to filter the stimuli, the sensations were all around him with no distinct origin. The feedback looped through his head in a throbbing, wordless litany of pain as his mind fought to distinguish between the unexpected interference.

Meanwhile, the fight continued somewhere around him. He knew he wasn't dead; the pain and confusion would conceivably have ended if he were. That could only mean Steve was keeping Stark at bay, although there was no telling how long that might last. Bucky needed to move, to pull himself together, to do _something_! 

But all he could do was lie on his back and wait for the end, his eyes blinking rapidly until he finally closed them against the vertigo.

It wasn't as bad as the chair. That was all he could think, an irrational notion but the best he could do given what he was working with. It wasn't as bad as the device that scrambled his brains and made him forget his own name all for the good of someone else's war. That was pain like he'd never felt before, not when he was a kid and broke his arm fighting one of Steve's battles for him (" _I had 'im on the ropes, Buck!", "Sure ya did, Stevie._ ") and not when he'd fallen to his apparent death in a ravine. The chair was its own brand of pain separate from anything ordinary men must suffer. This was nothing by comparison. 

He _knew_ his name: Bucky.

He _knew_ where he was: Siberia.

He _knew_ what had happened: his world had gone to shit.

Did he remember them—that's what Stark had asked. Did he remember killing a man who was his friend and his wife. Did he remember following orders to retrieve the target and eliminate any witnesses with extreme prejudice. Did he remember being set loose like an attack dog and then put back in the kennel when his services were no longer required. 

_‘I remember all of them.’_

They haunted his dreams, his nightmares, even his waking moments. They left him with guilt so deep and all encompassing he feared it would never be assuaged, no matter how much good he tried to do in penance. They glared at him with judgment and damnation in their eyes, weighing his exile, his _atonement_ , and finding it wanting. So many times he wondered if the ghosts would only be appeased by his death, and why shouldn't they? He'd lived his life as a ghost, and it was only fitting that he join them and share the same fate. He'd been close, so close to just pulling the trigger and welcoming the end the way he should have been allowed to seventy years ago.

And then Sokovia happened. 

He'd been in Bucharest at the time. It was still new to him then, living on his own and being in charge of his own life for the first time in his admittedly unreliable memory. He'd fled the States when the memories began trickling into place, knowing what would happen if the government decided to come for him after Washington D.C. He'd fled from Steve, too. The Winter Soldier couldn't be Captain America's best friend the way Bucky Barnes had been, and he could hardly call himself _Bucky Barnes_ at that point. He had known they would all come looking eventually, so he'd gone somewhere they wouldn't expect to find Hydra's tired old ghost.

For the longest time, he couldn't relax. He had been positive that it was only a matter of time before someone came to take him away--the government for his crimes, Hydra to be their toy soldier again, Steve to be the best friend he’d lost. He stayed off the grid and kept his head down, thinking he could stave off the inevitable if he just kept moving forward in the shadows.

Instead he'd moved forward right to an electronics store and watched as Captain America and the Avengers demolished an already failing country. What he could have accomplished via stealth they managed through pure physical annihilation because Stark had been foolish enough to mess with things he didn't understand. The reputation the Avengers had worked so hard to build was thrown into a shredder as news anchors and politicians worldwide tore them down off their pedestal with more venom than any army of robots could ever muster. 

And there was Steve, right in the middle of things as always. His pal, his buddy, his Steve. Bucky had known that by then, although it didn't convince him into contact. For the briefest moment, he considered it--finding Steve, telling him not to listen to the naysayers. If it hadn't been for the Avengers, far more people would have died in Sokovia. As it happened, those who _did_ were blood on Stark's hands and Stark's alone, not that the rest of the world cared to differentiate. But in the end he decided against reaching out and went about his mundane daily life. What right did the Winter Soldier have to comfort anyone?

Not that everything hadn't gone to shit a year later anyway, but still, Bucky had tried to do right by Steve. It was the one thing he could honestly say at the time that he knew he'd been doing his whole life. He wasn't worth Steve's help or his friendship after all he'd done, yet he'd gotten it anyway--of all the things he'd lost, that much was still intact. So doing right by Steve was the least he could do in return.

That ancient self-appointed mission solidified itself in his head, giving him something to focus on besides the pain in his skull, and he heard a blast followed by a familiar grunt not far away. He tried to turn his head in that direction, but the muscles in his neck were still twitching and his eyelids were even more uncooperative. The scuffle continued as he gained his bearings and gradually managed to roll toward the sound.

"Stay down." Stark. "Final warning."

Bucky blinked his eyes open, squinting at the blinding white light reflecting off snow beyond the concrete barriers. Steve was a silhouette against the backdrop of the mountains, Stark's back to Bucky as Captain America stubbornly, relentlessly rose to his feet. All of a sudden, Bucky felt himself transported back almost seventy-three years to the mouth of an alley in Brooklyn, two versions of the same image swimming before his eyes.

‘ _You just don't know when to give up, do ya?'_

A scrawny runt of a guy. A big bully. A uniform that never fit quite right. 

Adjusting the shoulders, picking himself up, raising his fists...

"I could do this all day."

The piece of shit in a back alley swung at the little guy as the man in an iron suit raised his hand to do the same. Reaching out with his remaining arm, Bucky managed to grab Stark's foot just steadily enough to draw his attention and a swift kick to the face for his trouble. (Sergeant James Barnes had been _far_ more successful in that alley.) Blood spilled out of his nose and ran down the side of his face as Bucky rolled onto his back, but there was no follow-up attack. All he could hear were grunts of exertion and then metal on metal as Steve presumably entered the fray again. Bucky tried to look, he really did, but his body refused to cooperate with this endeavor, almost as if saying it had seen enough.

Maybe he should have stayed still and let Stark have his vengeance. Perhaps it would have been justice served.

Bucky drifted again and then, when he settled back into himself, it was over. All he heard was heavy breathing and a deep, significant silence. A moment passed where he wondered if Steve was alive, if in Stark's rage he had killed a real hero instead of the worthless remnants of the once legendary assassin bleeding on the floor. But something moved and it didn't make the noisy, mechanical sounds of the Iron Man suit. Opening his eyes (when had he closed them?), Bucky blinked and managed to turn his head enough to see Steve limping toward him, shield in one hand and the other outstretched to help Bucky to his feet. 

It wasn't until he was up, more of his weight than he cared to admit dragging Steve down, that Bucky realized it was the second time his best friend had carried him out of enemy territory like this. Was history really so damned eager to repeat itself? _Poetic irony. Disgusting._

"That shield doesn't belong to you."

Well. It appeared that Stark, suit defunct and all but defeated, wasn't quite through. 

"You don't deserve it! My father made that shield!"

Steve tensed up, but they only paused a moment. Bucky knew the words were more of a gut punch than anything else Stark had thrown today, though. Howard had loved Steve. He saw Steve as his greatest creation, and Bucky had never seen the two of them on the outs. (Well, except the one time Steve was convinced he was coming on to Agent Carter.) If anyone, alive or dead, would believe that that shield could _never_ belong to anyone other than Steve Rogers, it was Howard Stark. Bucky Barnes thought the same.

Their opinions, however, appeared to mean very little. Steve's weight shifted and there was a loud clang where his shield hit the floor by their feet, abandoned as Steve nudged him forward toward the only remaining exit after the destruction they’d brought on the bunker. 

It took a few seconds before Bucky could regain control of himself enough to speak, but he only managed a quiet, "Steve," before the captain cut him off.

"Don't." It was the Captain America voice. They fell silent for a minute and when Steve spoke again, it was the softer tone of his best friend once more. "You _are_ worth it, Buck. Even if you think you're not."

Bucky swallowed down a million things he could say in response to that, settling for shaking his head as they made their way out of the bunker and into the frigid air outside. There was so much going on in his head that he felt it might burst. They had come here hoping to stop assassins he knew even he was no match against; he never would have been had it not been for the fact that Howard had apparently still not perfected the serum and it left his fellow winter soldiers unstable and volatile. Instead they had found a crypt and two men seeking revenge. Instead they had walked out without Captain America. Instead they had left something broken, perhaps irreparably, behind.

Stumbling to a stop and forcing Steve to do the same alongside him, Bucky turned to look back at the shattered remains of the bunker. Much as he hated to admit it, Zemo had been right in Berlin: it almost felt like home, horribly enough. But then, he _had_ been housed here longer than he’d lived in Romania or Brooklyn combined. He vaguely remembered thinking he needed to return here when Zemo had triggered the Winter Soldier, reasoning that he needed to report to superiors long dead or hidden and then go back to sleep. Now he was leaving a free man--or pieces of one anyway--and he would never see this place again. 

It was sickening that he actually felt a pang of sadness at the thought.

Steve's hand squeezing his shoulder brought Bucky back to the present, and he nodded as they moved forward once again. The sound of the wind was nearly deafening in what was otherwise silence, even the remains of Bucky's arm no longer making its malfunctioning electronic sounds where the wires swayed uselessly by his side. As though hearing his thoughts, Steve glanced over to his left side and frowned.

"Did it hurt?" 

It was almost tentative the way he asked, as if the arm wasn't a subject Bucky would want to talk about. Hydra or not, though, that arm was just as much his as the flesh one had been all those years ago. 

Smirking slightly, Bucky tried for some levity and hoarsely replied, "A little."

It took a moment, but then there it was: a tiny half smile as Steve caught the reference. Bucky was positive his answer was about as truthful as Steve's had been that day, too.

"Guess Zola's version of the serum didn't work well enough to grow back limbs," Bucky continued, smiling when Steve chuckled under his breath.

"Don't think Erskine's does either."

"You ever try?"

"Can't say I've been too eager to."

"Guess you didn't take _all_ the stupid, then," grunted Bucky as they reached the entrance to the quinjet and Steve hit the button to lower the hatch.

"Kinda hard when you took it all with you," was Steve's nonchalant reply as he helped Bucky inside.

"Punk."

"Jerk."

"Gentlemen."

Steve nearly dropped him in his haste to spin around, putting himself between Bucky and the intruder. Bucky reached for his gun holster only to find, unsurprisingly, that he didn't have a hand to reach with on that side. _Shit_.

How hadn't they noticed the Wakandan prince ( _King_ , Bucky corrected himself) standing just inside the quinjet? Not that he would have had any difficulty sneaking inside—he was in some ways stealthier and more deadly than Bucky had been in his Winter Soldier heyday. Still, two super soldiers should have noticed, even injured as they were. It was an unforgivable mistake, one that would have had severe consequences years ago in this place.

"I do not come meaning you harm," T'Challa began with a slight step forward, raising his hands with palms facing out when he saw that neither Steve nor Bucky planned on lowering their defenses anytime soon. "It would seem I have made a terrible mistake in my grief. It blinded me to the truth, and I owe you an apology, Sergeant Barnes."

Narrowing his eyes, Bucky surveyed the king skeptically. This wasn't exactly a conversation he had been expecting to have today. "How'd you know?"

"I followed Mister Stark here and heard what this Zemo had to say." T'Challa shook his head somberly. "Grief turns men into shells of themselves, but vengeance can make them monsters. I have decided that shall not be my fate. You did not kill my father. You tried to tell me and I did not listen. For that I am sorry. But," he added, his expression growing impossibly harder, "I have seen to it that the man responsible for so much suffering will be brought to justice."

Steve's brow furrowed and he asked tentatively, "Is he dead?"

"No," the prince answered with a grim smile. "Death would be too kind. He is waiting on the other quinjet for Mister Stark to take him to the U.N.” 

"And you're not going with them," Steve deduced carefully. T'Challa shook his head.

"I have had enough of politics to last me some time. I must see to my own country...as king. Besides, I think I can be of more help to you in Wakanda than Berlin."

Steve shook his head. "What do you mean?"

T'Challa's smile turned into something more friendly than remorseful now. "You are both wanted men, Captain. After the fight at the airport, your friends were taken to a maximum security prison known as the Raft, and Secretary Ross would like nothing more than to see you join them. My country, however, is secluded. The U.N. has little interest in what is happening in Wakanda for now."

"Not to mention the fact that they'll probably think you're the last person who would be willing to harbor the Winter Soldier," added Steve pensively, glancing to Bucky and back again.

"Precisely," T'Challa agreed with a nod. "You will be safe under my protection. Wakanda is also ahead of the rest of the world technologically. Perhaps with some information we could do something to repair that arm," he added with a gesture towards Bucky's absent appendage.

Bucky blinked, unable to reconcile this gracious man with the vengeful guy in the cat suit who had been stalking him since Romania. "You'd do that?"

"It is the least I can do." T'Challa nodded once again, his regret clear in the lines of his face. "But if we are to go, we had best do so now. Mister Stark did not know I followed him here, and it would be in all of our interests to keep it that way."

Steve and Bucky exchanged a quick glance, and Bucky could read the hesitation in his eyes. After all that had happened, he didn't blame Steve for being wary of the Black Panther. Hell, he was having trouble seeing this as being anything other than too good to be true as well. Regardless, Bucky almost imperceptibly lifted his shoulder in a slight shrug and silently communicated his assent. They were wanted men--T'Challa hadn't been lying about that. Wakanda was a strategic boon. It would be foolish to pass up the offer. If it _was_ a trap, they could deal with it as they always had: together. 

One nod to T'Challa had him moving past them to place himself in the pilot's seat. The engines roared to life as Steve deposited Bucky onto one of the benches in the rear of the quinjet, making sure he was settled before moving to the chair Bucky had occupied on the journey here behind the pilot’s seat. Just before they took off, the front of the quinjet lifting off the ground and disturbing the snow surrounding them, Bucky looked out of the still open doors at the bunker one last time. 

 _Прощай_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Прощай - Goodbye/Farewell
> 
> The science behind Bucky's arm and how he reacted to it being ripped off is pure fiction, and I'm not sure if it would function the same way in reality. Please suspend your disbelief!


	2. Alliances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the editing process is going quicker than expected, I've changed the update time frame from every Friday to every three to four days.

He must have dozed off, because the next time Bucky opened his eyes it was dark outside the quinjet’s cockpit. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the low light, and looked around the small space. Steve and T’Challa were where he’d last seen them, conversing in soft voices so he couldn’t quite make out the words. A steady rain was pounding against the glass, and Bucky couldn’t see more than dark grey clouds ahead as lightning occasionally illuminated the sky in the distance.

Running a hand wearily over his face (he _really_ needed a shave), Bucky reached out to push himself to his feet before he realized there was nothing on his left side to leverage against.

_Fucking arm._

He rolled his eyes at himself as he rose from the bench and stretched his cramped muscles. Back during the war, there were times when he would wake up and wonder why he was in a hole in the ground or a crowded barracks when he should have been in his less than comfortable bed in the apartment he shared with Steve in Brooklyn. The reason always came to him, but the brief time lapse and subsequent realization was unsettling at best. It was an issue he hadn’t often experienced since he’d become the Winter Soldier—for someone who had an excellent excuse for not remembering where he was, Bucky had been uncomfortably aware of his surroundings and how he’d gotten there in the last two years. Before that, it really hadn’t mattered much anyway.

A sudden thought occurred to him as he reminisced, and his brow furrowed in a pensive frown as he realized it was something he should have asked about before leaving Siberia. _Speaking of memory problems…_

“Hey,” he called up to his companions, his voice still rough from sleep.

Steve whipped around right away, a look of surprise on his face that made Bucky want to roll his eyes. As Captain America, he was far too well-trained to not have realized the moment when Bucky woke up. He supposed after the day they’d had he could let it slide, but only just.

T’Challa, on the other hand, hadn’t turned and simply tilted his head back and to the side to indicate that he was listening.

“How are you feeling, Buck?” Steve asked before Bucky could say anything else, surveying him carefully in the semi-darkness.

Bucky just shrugged his single working shoulder, deflecting with, “Your face looks less gross.”

The flat expression Steve leveled at him clearly said that he wasn’t fooling Steve for a moment, but the latter didn’t mention it as he replied, “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Sure thing, pal.” Bucky threw him a quick smirk before turning to the back of T’Challa’s head. “So, uh…your highness, or… whatever. Did Zemo have anything when you found him?”

“You may call me T’Challa, and he only had a gun,” the king trailed off for a moment before finishing, “to end his own life.”

_What a tragedy that he didn’t manage it._ “Did you search him?”

T’Challa turned to glance at him over his shoulder. “Only for other weapons.” Meaning guns, knives… He would have missed the greatest one of all.

“Did he have a book?”

“What kind of book?” inquired Steve.

“Red with a black star on the front,” Bucky described, disgusted by the mere thought of it. Thinking back to the conversation in the bunker, he continued, “It would have been small enough to fit in the pocket of his coat. Everything would have been handwritten in Russian.”

Bucky felt his stomach plummeting as T’Challa shook his head. “I did not see one, although I wasn’t particularly looking. What is it?”

A deep breath filled his lungs, but Bucky could do nothing more than whisper a few choice curses as he paced back and forth across the confined space of the quinjet, the missing weight of an arm on his left side making him slightly unsteady on his feet. Zemo had to have been carrying that book to get into the bunker; any entrance codes would have been recorded inside. It also would have said which section the cryo units were in, not that he hadn’t had plenty of time to look around the place and find them himself thanks to Stark and the other Avengers holding them up in Leipzig. Was he lucky enough that Zemo put the book down somewhere inside and it was now buried or turned to ash?

It was hardly a question: Bucky had _never_ been that lucky.

Besides, he couldn’t rest thinking that the book, the most powerful weapon he knew of, was just sitting below ground where anyone could find it if they had the means. He couldn’t rest knowing that the most likely scenario was that Zemo still had it on his person, which meant it was with Stark at this very moment. If Stark didn’t search him and take the book for himself (an undesirable option at worst), it would be delivered into the hands of the U.N. Task Force and Secretary Ross soon enough (an _unthinkable_ option at best). It wouldn’t take them long to find out what it was, to decipher the codes and translate the Russian until they realized what they held in their hands could bring down empires, _had_ brought down entire _nations_ —

“Buck?” Steve’s voice snapped him out of his musings and Bucky blinked to find one star-spangled man standing in front of him, stopping him in his tracks and staring at him with an expression of concern and confusion on his face. “What’s in the book?”

“Everything.” The word came out in a frustrated growl, and that alone seemed to explain it all to Steve. Seventy years later and they could still communicate without words.

“You mean, the words that…”

Bucky nodded grimly. “The words, maintenance instructions, records, _everything_. Whoever has that book effectively owns the Winter Soldier.”

“Where would Zemo have even gotten his hands on it?” wondered Steve, eyes narrowed. “If it was Hydra’s book, Pierce would have—“

“Pierce never had it,” Bucky interjected, waving the idea off. Pierce had been an effective handler in his utter ruthlessness, but when it came down to it, the man hadn’t really known what was in his possession. “He had the chair and the tech for maintenance, but he never had the book. That’s probably why I started remembering so much—if he’d had that book and said the words, it wouldn’t have mattered _what_ I knew.”

“Are you saying this book never left Russia?” T’Challa asked, inserting himself into the conversation fluidly.

Shaking his head, Bucky replied, “Not with me.” It was a struggle to remember, but he started pacing again as he waded through the sludge of memories he had set aside as being somehow less important. If it wasn’t murder or death or war or Steve, it really hadn’t been high on his list of priorities. “No one used the words on me after…after the Starks. They put me back under when the other winter soldiers didn’t pan out. Next time I wake up, I’m not in Siberia anymore. They shipped me around a lot after that, but every time they woke me up, they just wiped me and sent me out. No words. Nothing.”

“Meaning whoever had the book took it with them when the Soviet Union fell,” murmured Steve. “Zemo must have found out who had it and got it from them.”

“It could have been anyone working with Hydra or the KGB in the Soviet Union at the time,” T’Challa posed thoughtfully. “Most likely someone who had more access to you, Sergeant.”

The face popped into his mind’s eye before the name did, and Bucky only just managed to hide his flinch at the mere thought of the man. “Karpov.”

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him. “Vasily Karpov,” he heard Steve say. It wasn’t a question, and Bucky couldn’t help frowning as he turned to scrutinize Steve.

“How do you know about him?”

Steve glanced away for a moment and Bucky almost missed the flash of guilt that crossed his face. Almost. “Steve…”

“Natasha got a, uh… She got her hands on a file on the Winter Soldier Project after D.C.,” he explained somewhat sheepishly, shooting Bucky a mildly apologetic look. “I thought it might give me an idea of where you’d go, and Karpov’s name was all over it.”

“Along with plenty of other things, I’m sure,” Bucky countered darkly, ignoring what he knew Steve thought of as an invasion of his privacy. Steve wasn’t being overly apologetic and, if he was being honest, Bucky had lost all meaning of the concept of privacy in the last few decades. Much as he didn’t want Steve to be exposed to what he had become, it wasn’t a choice he’d been able to make, and he very much doubted that whatever file he had held _everything_ about the Winter Soldier. No _one_ file could.

While Steve looked like he wanted to continue that vein of conversation, T’Challa cut in, “Given all that Zemo hoped to accomplish, all the people he killed…” He trailed off a moment, clearly thinking of his own loss before he continued. “Do you think this man is still alive?”

“I doubt it,” answered Bucky with a grim sense of satisfaction. “He liked letting other people do the dirty work for him, and he wouldn’t have been as young as he used to be.”

“We can look into it as soon as we get to Wakanda.”

“Thanks.” The promise didn’t do much to make Bucky feel better, but he supposed it was better than nothing. Getting the book back and burning the fucker was one thing, but Karpov had been his handler for long enough that the man probably had the code words memorized—a world without him in it would be better for everyone.

“For now,” the king continued hesitantly, “there is not much we can do about getting that book back. It will be safer simply to keep you away from anyone who might have access to it for now.”

“And there’s always the old-fashioned way of dealing with the situation if someone _does_ try to trigger the Winter Soldier again,” Steve asserted distractedly, folding his arms as he turned to look at their progress on the navigation system. Bucky couldn’t help snorting lightly.

“Let me guess—punch ‘em in the face, right?”

“A Steve Rogers classic.”

“Yeah, tell that to Hitler.”

The rest of the flight passed quickly and in relative silence. In spite of everything T’Challa was doing for them, however, Bucky simply couldn’t be completely at ease around the king. It wasn’t like with Steve’s friends: some had not trusted him at all but were there for Steve, and that was enough to put Bucky’s mind at ease. Not a day ago, however, the Black Panther was fighting for the other side and had been out for Bucky’s blood, and Steve’s by association. That was a tougher hurdle to get over.

Then there were always the niggling thoughts in the back of his mind saying that this was some elaborate trap, that the king was taking them to this Raft prison or back to Berlin or even to some kind of facility in Wakanda where they wouldn’t be able to escape. It even struck him that perhaps T’Challa had been lying about not finding the book and had it with him, just waiting for the right moment to get Bucky alone and make the Winter Soldier the new Wakandan weapon. It was not hard and it wouldn’t take long—just the length of time to say a few words. Steve had never heard those words before; the power and therefore the cameras had been out in Berlin when Zemo had brought out the big guns, so T’Challa could say it and be finished long before Steve even had any idea what was happening. Not long after that, he could be dead on the floor with the Winter Soldier’s hands around his throat. The idiot had already proven before that he would only fight back to a point, and there wasn’t exactly a whole lot of room in the quinjet to get the upper hand.

Before he could get too lost in his own fears and suspicions, Steve stepped up next to where he stood at the very rear of the quinjet, his back to T’Challa.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, peeking over his shoulder. “I think we can trust him.”

Bucky frowned in a silent inquiry.

Steve raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smirk. “You’ve been staring at him like you’re considering throwing him out of the plane for ten minutes.”

“Oh.” There were worse ideas. “How can you be sure?”

“I can’t,” Steve admitted with a shrug. “But he was never fighting over the Accords. He was never fighting for _Tony_. He was just trying to avenge his father, and now he knows that wasn’t you.”

“So he tries to kill me but not the guy who actually _did_ kill his father? That doesn’t seem a little strange to you?”

Sighing, Steve just shrugged again. “I think he’s tired of vengeance. Zemo, Tony… They were out for blood. That can only last so long before it wears you down…”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were talking from experience,” Bucky prodded, frowning at the faraway look in Steve’s eyes. Steve glanced steadily back at him before a small, sad smile formed on his lips.

“Well, you didn’t see me after you fell.”

Bucky opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say to that but knowing he needed to say _something_ , when T’Challa called back to them that they were making their final approach into Wakanda. Steve nodded, visibly setting Steve Rogers aside and stepping back into the captain’s boots as he turned back to the front of the plane. It was a conversation they were apparently going to table for a later time—Bucky would make damn sure of that.

“There will be a car waiting for us at the airstrip,” T’Challa was saying when Bucky followed Steve to the front of the quinjet. “It is small and reserved only for the royal family of Wakanda. You shall not be seen coming into the country.”

“What about your bodyguards, your staff?” Steve was holding on to the handrail above the pilot’s seat, watching T’Challa carefully as he clarified their position. “We won’t be able to come into the country with a _king_ without someone seeing.”

T’Challa gave a short nod, smirking with _actual_ good humor for the first time Bucky could remember during this trip. “You must remember, Captain, that Wakandans care little for the events of the wider world. Until Nigeria, they were quite content to let the planet spin on. They will not be bothered to get involved in global politics just because an Avenger has entered the country with the permission of its king.”

Nodding slowly, Steve guessed, “So you want them to think we’re here to show our support for Wakanda.”

“In a less publicized way, yes. It is better at this time that they think you are here to help protect us rather than that I am protecting _you_ , at least until the truth of Zemo’s crimes against my country have been substantiated.”

“And where does the one-armed terrorist from the news come in?” Bucky asked, unaware of how bitter he sounded until after the words left his mouth. He had to admit that it had been a brilliant ruse to flush him out of hiding, but he was still incredibly put out over the whole thing. Seriously, a mask? What was this, 1985?

“I doubt you will be recognized,” T’Challa assured him confidently. “The surveillance images looked far more similar to your appearance during the Second World War. You have changed enough that I do not believe this will be a problem.”

Bucky couldn’t help grunting, “And if it is?”

“As the captain said: I am the king.”

As it turned out, that was more than enough. They landed without incident, and no one looked twice at them with the exception of one very intimidating bodyguard who met them as soon as they stepped off the quinjet. Her eyes passed over Steve as though he was hardly worth her time, but they stuck on Bucky a moment longer than he felt comfortable with. He was the goddamn Winter Soldier, though, so he met her gaze head on until she apparently deemed him worthy to be in the presence of the king of Wakanda. If she recognized him from the news, she gave no indication.

T’Challa spoke with her in their native language, one of the few that Bucky didn’t remember learning and therefore couldn’t translate, and she gave a curt nod of her head before leading the way from their transport to the car they would be taking to…

“Where exactly are we going?” Steve inquired as soon as they were inside the vehicle. There had been only a few workers on the tarmac, and they had steered clear of the king and his party. Now it was just the three of them and the bodyguard, who was driving the car with a severe expression that said the asphalt they drove on had done her a personal disservice. Bucky thought back to one of Sam’s comments in Leipzig about _Bucky’s_ “resting bitch-face” and had to say that this lady was eons ahead of him.

Bucky tried not to dwell on the amusing thought of Sam meeting T’Challa’s bodyguard as the king answered, “There is a facility outside the capital city that is remote enough to keep you out of the public eye. It is not known to civilians.”

_Because that doesn’t sound suspicious at all._

Steve glanced over to him and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Yes, apparently they _could_ still communicate wordlessly. “And what is this facility used for?”

“Research, Captain. Wakanda is leading the world in research on engineering, medical sciences, and technology other nations have not yet dreamed of. We seek only to further mankind, not destroy it. It is not a popular viewpoint. As such, I am sure you will understand the need for discretion—many of our developments in the wrong hands could be used for more nefarious purposes.”

Nodding, Steve murmured, “Of course.”

“How remote is this facility?” asked Bucky, raising an eyebrow at the glare the bodyguard shot him in the rearview mirror.

“It is out in the jungle, perhaps an hour from here.”

“Will we be able to get quick transport out of Wakanda if it’s necessary?” Steve caught onto Bucky’s line of thinking more rapidly than he expected.

T’Challa nodded, turning in the passenger seat to look at them. “There are many methods of transportation to and from the facility. Should your safety be compromised—although I assure you that will not be the case—you will have options.”

Raising an eyebrow skeptically, Bucky questioned, “If there’s a direct way in, why are we in a car?”

“Because it was better for me to be seen coming back to Wakanda. If we were to sneak into the country, the Task Force would be more suspicious—a king has no reason to hide his return. Now they will know I am here and will not think to look into who I arrived with. For all they know, I flew here from Berlin.”

Bucky hated to admit it even silently, but this guy was clearly well prepared for any eventuality. It was both comforting and unnerving given their history.

“So, we can come and go from the facility in secret?”

_And then there’s Steve…_

T’Challa thought in silence, surveying Steve for a moment before he answered slowly, “Should the need arise.”

“Thank you,” nodded Steve distantly, his mind obviously elsewhere. Bucky caught his attention and narrowed his eyes in question, but the slightest shake of Steve’s head told him it was not something he cared to explain, at least not in present company.

The atmosphere shifted the further they moved from the city, trees cropping up around them until there were no more buildings in sight, and the bodyguard turned onto a dirt path in the middle of the jungle. There were no manmade markers to tell them where they were going; even the path itself was hidden completely from the main road and seemed to require knowledge of its existence for anyone to find it. (That was the only way Bucky could think of that _he_ wouldn’t have seen it.) T’Challa commented occasionally about where they were, what the location was good for, and various random facts about Wakanda that Bucky thought he could have gone his whole life without knowing. If this place was to be home for the foreseeable future, however, he supposed it would be useful to learn what he could. It had been easier in Romania, where he could find the lay of the land on his own rather than relying on someone else to tell him what they thought he needed to know. He’d had a lifetime of that already.

Steve was quiet throughout the journey, pondering something and leaving Bucky wondering what on earth could possibly be going through that head of his now. He had a feeling it had something to do with Steve's friends, the ones T’Challa had said were imprisoned for helping a rogue Captain America, and that probably meant he didn’t plan on staying here for long—which meant _Bucky_ wouldn’t be staying here for long either. It was rather strange: he had had two years of relative boredom and then Steve Rogers came barging back into his life and he hadn’t had a moment to breathe since. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t sure which he preferred. 

The sudden darkness around them yanked both him and Steve from their thoughts, and Bucky caught Steve’s eyes where they reflected the dashboard lights.

“What’s going on?” Steve questioned T’Challa a moment later. They couldn’t see the man or his bodyguard, who had turned on the headlights uselessly—there was nothing to be seen ahead of them. Wherever they were, it may as well have been a void.

T’Challa, utterly unperturbed, replied from somewhere in the gloom, “It is the underground entrance to the facility. It is hidden in the case of any aerial or ground surveillance in the vicinity.”

“For a country that stays out of the world’s way, you certainly don’t take any chances out here.” Steve’s mild, sardonic tone made Bucky smirk.

“Just because we take little interest in the outside, Captain, does not mean the outside feels the same.”

To Bucky’s chagrin, this meant there was no surveying the facility prior to their arrival; there was no chance for reconnaissance or verifying T’Challa’s story before they were driving straight into a brightly lit security checkpoint that seemed to appear out of nowhere and were surrounded by armed men and women. Rapidly blinking to adjust to the sudden light, Bucky glanced at Steve and straightened in his seat, waiting on the edge as the bodyguard spoke with the security personnel in that language he could not understand. He knew it was paranoid, but he hated when he couldn’t understand what was happening around him. Nothing good ever came of it, especially not where he was concerned, and now Steve was involved as well. Much as he wanted to protect himself, his number one priority was making sure no harm came to the man sitting beside him. It wasn’t exactly an easy feat when he had no clue what was happening.

The conversation was short-lived and then they were driving forward again through the gate into what he assumed was an underground parking structure. The bodyguard pulled into a space, and the security agents approached on all sides to open their doors.

Bucky’s right hand curled into a fist and he sat rigid in his seat, eyes narrowed at the soldier outside his door. The latter, however, paid him no mind and stood there waiting, presumably for him to exit the vehicle.

A soft nudge to his shoulder had him glancing over to see Steve giving him a wary but reassuring look. When he saw he had Bucky’s attention, he nodded slightly in an affirmation that it was all right—they were still okay.

_Son of a bitch is_ way _too trusting._

Taking a deep breath, Bucky turned his eyes back to the agent outside his door and stepped slowly out of the vehicle nevertheless, not once taking his eyes off of the potential threat. The man didn’t move, though; his fingers never even twitched toward his holstered weapon. Luckily, the rest of their party came around his side of the car, meaning he didn’t have to turn his back on the man and allow him an opportunity to change that. T’Challa was already speaking, not that Bucky had heard a word, and he tuned in to the conversation as he fell into step behind Steve, eyes sweeping every corner, every threat.

“—welcome to the residential suites while you are here. They are on the other side of the complex from the more intensive research facilities, so it should be quiet enough. Sergeant, you may need to stay in a medical suite overnight depending on the extent of the damage.”

Bucky, whose attention had only been half on the conversation, focused his full attention on T’Challa’s words. “Damage?”

“To your arm,” T’Challa clarified as though it were obvious, gesturing toward his missing appendage. Bucky had almost forgotten—again—in his preoccupation. “It does not appear to be causing you any pain, but it will be your choice.”

“Thanks.” And _hell no_ to staying in medical any longer than he absolutely needed.

Ultimately, the men in the white coats (who did _not_ cause Bucky’s elevated heart rate, _goddamn it_ ) determined that he didn’t need much at all. They made a beeline through the ultramodern building, its floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over a breathtaking view of the surrounding jungle and absolutely _nothing_ else, to the medical facilities. A cursory glance and further inspection revealed that whatever power source was contained in the arm had long since shut down, hence the termination of all sensory input through the various loose wires hanging out of the metal shoulder terminal, and there was little to do besides cut the wires out and clean it all up. By the time they were through, it had taken little more than an hour to remove the now unnecessary hardware, sand off the jagged edges of the metal exoskeleton (although they left the red star intact), and leave him looking at least marginally less like a cyborg. Hey, they even covered the remains in a cool black sleeve to make him look more edgy.

Actually, it was really to keep dust and dirt particles from coming into contact with the internal components to preserve them for future study and (optimistically) replacement, but Bucky was just preparing himself for whatever Wilson would say when they inevitably saw each other again. It meant he didn’t have to look at that damn red star anymore, though, which was definitely a plus.

Steve had been a silent spectator the whole time, looking on as he remained deep in thought about whatever had undoubtedly been on his mind on the way here. Not wanting to address it in front of the various medical technicians and engineers he absolutely did not trust, Bucky held his tongue on the matter until they were shown to a pair of rooms not too far from where they had initially entered the complex to rest for the evening. T’Challa had already retired, informing them that he would brief them on what was happening outside Wakanda when he had news.

“Y’know, for a guy who was trying to kill me up until yesterday, he’s not so bad,” muttered Bucky begrudgingly, collapsing on the bed in Steve’s suite while the latter smirked at him from the window.

“Just make yourself comfortable.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The room itself wasn’t anything special. It had the same modern furnishings they’d seen all around the complex complete with a queen bed, side table, dresser, two chairs around a small table, closet, and an en suite bathroom he hadn’t explored yet. It wasn’t a room fit for a king, but it was certainly better than most of the hotels Bucky had frequented before finding his apartment in Bucharest. The outer wall was all glass facing out onto the jungle, and Steve stood watching the sun making its way further west over the mist, his back to Bucky.

“Okay,” he finally said, pulling himself up to the head of the bed and crossing his ankles in front of him. “What are you thinking?”

Nothing. _Okay, gonna need to be more specific._ “It’s about your friends, right?”

Steve glanced at him, his shoulders lifting as he pulled in a deep breath and let it out in a weary sigh. “I got them into this mess.”

It was with great effort that Bucky resisted rolling his eyes. Leave it to Steve to take the entire burden on his broad, serum-enhanced shoulders. “I didn’t see you forcing anyone into anything. You gave them the out before Stark and the others even got there, and they went with you anyway. That was their choice.”

“One they wouldn’t have had to make if it wasn’t for m—“

“None of this was your fault, Steve,” Bucky interrupted emphatically. “You didn’t tell Zemo to be a psychopath. You didn’t tell Stark to pick the other side.”

“But I _did_ choose not to sign the Accords,” rebutted Steve, finally turning around to face him.

Bucky nodded, commenting quietly, “You did what you thought was right. That’s all anyone _can_ do.”

“I know that,” Steve sighed after a momentary pause, sinking down on the edge of the bed with his elbows propped against his knees. He was silent for a long time and Bucky waited, knowing there was something else he was working through in that thick skull of his. Finally, a few minutes later, Steve shook his head. “When all this started… I _did_ consider signing.”

Now _that_ didn’t sound like Steve Rogers. Reading the confusion on his face, Steve explained, “I thought maybe it could be worth it, that this would be the first draft and at least once it was signed, we could work on making it better. We could make everything work the way they needed to.”

_Now_ that _sounds more like him._ “So… What changed your mind?”

Steve huffed something like a chuckle. “You remember Peggy?”

“She’s a tough one to forget,” Bucky countered, well aware of the irony and wondering at the apparent non sequitur. 

“Yeah. Well, she passed…right at the start of all this.”

It was unsurprising—if the two of them were nearing a hundred years old, Peggy Carter would have been right behind them. Hell, after reading about what she’d gone on to accomplish in the Smithsonian exhibit on Captain America, he was surprised she’d lasted this long. He didn’t say that to Steve, though, nor did he apologize. They had both lost enough to know that apologies were worthless.

“At her funeral,” Steve pushed on after a moment, “Sharon, her niece that works at the CIA—“

“Wait,” interrupted Bucky, eyes narrowing. “Blonde Sharon?”

A light blush began to color Steve’s cheeks as he studiously avoided Bucky’s sharpened gaze. “Yes.”

“The Sharon who brought your shield and Sam’s wings?”

“Yes.”

“Sharon, who you _kissed,_ happens to be related to badass Peggy goddamn Carter?”

A sigh and—was that a wince? “Yeah.”

“For fuck’s sake, Steve. Keeping it in the family much?”

“Okay, okay!” Steve chuckled, holding his hands up in surrender. “Yes, _that_ Sharon. Anyway, she spoke at the funeral and mentioned something Peggy said,” he continued, sobering. “After hearing it, I just… I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sign, not when I knew it wasn’t right. It wasn’t something I could compromise on and hope to change later. Then the U.N. happened and you got caught in the crossfire and… I couldn’t just stand aside and let them take you down.”

Bucky paused a moment, frowning slightly before he softly replied, “Maybe you should have.”

Steve’s gaze snapped to him, and he was already shaking his head fiercely. “No, Buck—“

“After everything I’ve done, maybe it would have been for the best. Maybe starting a goddamn war wasn’t worth it, not for _me_.”

“Bucky, you were _imprisoned_ and _tortured_ for over seventy years,” argued Steve firmly, determination in every syllable. “You shouldn’t be punished for the things you had no control over. You’ve already gone through enough.”

_But it was still me_ , Bucky wanted to counter with. _I still did it, and it doesn’t matter if I wanted to or not—those people are still dead._ The Starks were just the tip of the iceberg, and there was no bringing any of them back, all because he hadn’t been strong enough to resist. All because some damn book with a few random, meaningless words had the power to turn him into a monster. _A monster that can be unleashed at any damn time so long as that book exists…_

“Stop it.”

Bucky glanced at Steve and grumbled, “Stop what?”

“Blaming yourself. You said what happened to the others isn’t my fault? Well, this isn’t yours.”

_Low blow, Rogers._

“We’ll get past this, Buck.”

_And how many more people will die in the process?_ he deliberately didn’t say. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked Steve in the eye. “So what’s the plan?”

Sighing, Steve seemed to sense that that part of the conversation was over and allowed the change in subject. “You’re not going to like it.”

If the look of that mischievous, classic Steve Rogers glint in his eyes was anything to go by, Bucky had a feeling he was absolutely going to _hate_ it.


	3. Jailbreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike in the first chapter, when Russian is spoken, you will see it written in English with brackets on either side. Also, this chapter includes some violence. There is no gore, but you can expect roughly the same as you would see in the movie.

“You know, I’ve gotta hand it to you, Rogers. You don’t do _anything_ halfway.”

Natasha Romanoff looked impressed, which Bucky assumed was probably a rare occurrence given the proud smile Steve sported as a result. She’d arrived sometime during the night, another “refugee like themselves,” according to T’Challa. Apparently her performance in Leipzig had come to the attention of Secretary Ross, who put out a call for her arrest and trial before the Task Force for aiding and abetting known fugitives and acting in direct violation of the Sokovia Accords. Which, of course, Romanoff had signed.

Given the fact that it also meant essentially stabbing one already pissed off Stark in the back, she had a damn good reason to be laying low—at least until she helped them break into the most secure facility known (or, rather, _unknown_ ) to mankind.

“Well, if you’re going to do something, you may as well do it the right way,” Steve replied flippantly. “We’ve done crazier things.”

_What._

“Crazier things that haven’t exactly put us at risk of a bullet through the head on sight,” Romanoff qualified, but her smirk was testament to the fact that it didn’t particularly bother her. How fitting for a Russian spy.

“Do you think it can be done?”

Romanoff stared into the hangar, where some of T’Challa’s technicians were making modifications to a black helicopter, shrugging a shoulder carelessly. “Getting in will be the hardest part, but as long as T’Challa holds up his end and delivers the tech, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The two of them went back over the plan, analyzing every microscopic detail they could while Bucky listened silently from the corner of the room. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Romanoff, but…okay, he didn’t trust her. His mind was also aggravatingly eager to superimpose four images every time he looked in her direction: an agent bleeding out in Odessa, a target on the streets of D.C. (he’d actually _liked_ those goggles, dammit), an obstacle with his metal hand around her throat, and the woman who stood before him now. Quite frankly, even if he didn’t think about all the motives she would have to betray him as soon as they entered the Raft, it was a dizzying array of mental images to sort through. Things had been easier when it was just Steve and him, but her help would unfortunately be invaluable if they were going to get this done right.

The biggest problem, however: they were going in blind. They had their transportation and T’Challa had promised them disguises that would exceed their wildest expectations (because apparently he wasn’t a fan of anyone’s human rights being stripped from them regardless of whether they had broken the Accords), but there were no blueprints to examine and no openings to hack into the security cameras until they were inside the building itself. They couldn’t conduct any surveillance without getting close enough to already be on the Raft’s radar long before they could actually accomplish anything. If they were going to get in, they had one chance and they had to do it with intel so limited it was practically nonexistent. T’Challa knew where the prison was and what channel they would be broadcasting on to verify clearance codes for arrival—that was it.

The Winter Soldier would have had plenty of Hydra’s best resources at his disposal to get inside undetected without all this fuss, but the Winter Soldier also wouldn’t have been retrieving four people to bring back either.

_Speaking of which…_

A fleeting look between Steve and Romanoff told him it would be a while before they surfaced, so Bucky slipped quietly out of the room and strode down the quiet, slightly sterile corridor. They had been given free rein to move about the complex as they pleased so long as they didn’t enter any of the secure laboratories, where T’Challa had said they were working with materials that may be volatile. Otherwise, they had no guards on them, not even T’Challa’s stoic bodyguard (whose name Bucky _still_ hadn’t learned, although she was one of the renowned Dora Milaje). They could come and go as they pleased, although T’Challa stated that he would appreciate them being forthcoming in sharing any movements made to leave or enter Wakanda. It meant the complex felt slightly more like a hotel than a prison, something which Bucky found himself grudgingly grateful for.

He made his way down the corridor unseen and unhindered, turning towards the sky bridge that led from the residential suites to the research facilities. Two Dora Milaje stood halfway between him and the bridge, guarding the door to the king’s office with the same stony-faced expression as the bodyguard he was already used to, but he hadn’t had any contact with these ones. Past their shoulders, the door to the office was open, and he heard the sounds of the news inside.

Surprisingly, neither of the women on the door stopped him as he stepped past them into the room, though he felt their eyes on the back of his neck as he approached the desk. T’Challa’s attention was focused on the television mounted on the far wall, a British news anchor taking up most of the screen with a small inlaid photograph of Zemo in the corner.

_“—allegedly perpetrated by the Hydra assassin James Buchanan Barnes, code named the Winter Soldier, may actually have been committed by Colonel Helmut Zemo. Zemo was a former soldier in Sokovia and has since been taken into custody for questioning regarding this incident, as well as other acts of violence tied to the U.N. bo—“_

The screen went black. Bucky glanced over to see T’Challa setting the remote aside on his desk and staring at the now blank television in resignation.

“You don’t want to see the rest?” Bucky asked, nodding toward the screen. T’Challa merely shook his head.

“There is not much else to see.” He shrugged, an oddly informal gesture for a king. “Justice will be served.”

_Asshole can have fun in that little containment unit_ , Bucky thought savagely.

T’Challa inclined his head slightly. “You might also be interested to hear that a man identified as Vasily Karpov was found dead a few days ago.”

“Well,” commented Bucky after a pregnant pause. “One less asshole to worry about.”

Humming, the king otherwise continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “I have a feeling you did not come here to discuss _his_ fate, however.”

T’Challa’s gaze was far too knowing for comfort, and Bucky struggled not to shift restlessly under his intense scrutiny. He gave the king a curt nod instead.

“If Zemo’s in custody, then that means the U.N. has the book.”

T’Challa pulled in a deep breath, sitting back in his chair and gesturing for Bucky to take a seat on the other side of his desk. “You think they will know what it is?”

“I think it won’t be difficult to figure it out,” Bucky clarified, sinking slowly into the chair and considering T’Challa carefully. He still had a hard time trusting someone who had been so hell-bent on killing him, but he supposed if he were to remain that way about everyone who’d tried to kill him in the past, he would have no one. _Except Steve._ “The Raft is one thing—in and out. If the U.N. has the book, it could be anywhere in the world.”

“And they could trigger you if you came anywhere near it.”

“Or even if I didn’t.” Bucky made an aborted motion toward the television. “Hydra never tried that before, but I’m sure it would work just the same.”

T’Challa nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. It was still vague and hazy like many memories as the Winter Soldier tended to be until time rendered them in greater clarity, but Bucky remembered attacking him in Berlin after being triggered and interrogated. He had to understand the ramifications of the Winter Soldier being unleashed remotely anywhere with access to a television or radio.

“We cannot keep you isolated from the rest of the world forever,” T’Challa finally replied, sighing heavily. “There is a chance that we can disable the trigger words, but it will take time to understand the nature of your situation and how they work in your mind before we can even begin to take those steps forward.”

“What would be the chances of doing that safely?” _Wouldn’t that be great: inciting a massacre by accident while trying to prevent one._

The king shook his head, his expression grim. “There is no way of knowing. In the event of an accidental activation of the Winter Soldier, you may be completely harmless unless given direct orders.”

“Or I might repaint the walls with your technicians’ brains.”

“Yes, there is also that,” T’Challa allowed with a wry smile. A moment later, his smirk faded once more to be replaced by a pensive, almost apprehensive expression. “There is one other possibility… One that would allow us time to investigate further without risking your safety here or anyone else’s.”

Bucky sat up straighter, but T’Challa did not immediately continue. Whatever it was, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it. “What?"

T’Challa met his gaze and their eyes held, almost as though he was looking for something within the depths of Bucky’s that he wasn’t sure existed.

Whatever it was, he must have found it, and after a deep breath he continued tentatively, “Cryogenics have been a key element in much of our research.” Bucky felt like the bottom of his stomach dropped out but forced himself to keep listening. “We have made great strides in making the process safe and effective for various organisms required for later study.”

“Animals.” He didn’t mean for his voice to sound so hoarse all of a sudden.

“Animals, plants, cellular organisms. We…have not yet tried it with humans,” admitted T’Challa hesitantly. “Given your history, as well as the captain’s, I doubt it would be an issue for your enhanced physiology. In fact, from what I saw of the cryogenic chambers used in Siberia, our methods would be far more…humane.”

It wouldn’t be much of a stretch, if Bucky was being honest. Not only were those chambers decades old now, but they were not exactly outfitted with the subject’s comfort in mind. They were admittedly a step up from what he’d had in the beginning, albeit a marginal one. The early cryo units were nothing more than metal coffins, easily shipped and easily hidden. The chambers in Siberia were later models created for long-term use in a base meant to be his permanent facility—there was no need to ensure transport capabilities.

Still, despite T’Challa’s reassurances, Bucky couldn’t help remembering the biting cold and indescribable pain that came with being flash frozen in the brief yet immeasurable moment between the body freezing and the brain shutting down. He had still been able to see and hear everything happening around the chamber, felt his muscles turn stiff, immobilized without need for restraints. It was a torture all its own, and that was just going _under_. Coming out was even worse.

Sensing his discomfort, T’Challa pressed on. “It is something for you to consider, but it is not your only option. Given time, I am confident we will find a way to resolve the issue.”

Bucky nodded slowly, but he knew better. The king was beginning to sound like Steve—idealistic, believing that if you fought the good fight you could come out on top somehow, or at the very least alive. That had long since been burned out of Bucky with fire through his veins and lightning in his head. Now all that remained was a disenchanted realist who knew that you could fight the good fight forever and never get one step ahead. Sometimes it wasn’t about what was good or bad but what was simply best for everybody.

So, against every fiber of his being that screamed for him to leave _right now_ , Bucky asked, “How long would it take to be ready?”

Smiling sadly, T’Challa only hesitated a moment. “We would make some slight modifications to the unit to house someone your size.”

“But you could have it ready when we get back.”

“Yes.”

Breathing in deeply and holding it a moment, Bucky nodded tersely. “Do it.”

T’Challa inclined his head in affirmation but inquired, “You do not wish to speak with the captain before making your decision?” It didn’t sound like much of a question, as though he was already aware of the answer.

“Right now, he needs to stay focused on the mission,” answered Bucky, hearing what a feeble excuse it was the moment the words left his lips. “I’ll tell him when we get back. So if we could just keep this between us for now…”

“Of course.” Bucky watched closely for any signs that the king was lying, but there was nothing forthcoming in his earnest expression. Seeming to sense his thoughts, T’Challa assured him, “It is your decision to make and your business to tell. For my part, I shall make sure preparations are completed in time for your return.”

The conversation ended there: no more arrangements, and no telling Steve. Bucky stamped down the twinge of guilt in his gut when Steve came to find him not long after and told him that everything was prepared to roll out, or fly as it were. Romanoff was with him, but if she could tell anything had happened in his absence from their planning session, she kept her mouth shut about it. Her green eyes always seemed to look right through him with an air of not quite distrust but perhaps simply cautious curiosity. The last thing he needed was the famous Black Widow finding out what he was thinking and telling Steve, who was already bound to react badly as it was. After all, whatever Bucky’s reasons, cryo sounded a lot more like giving up than fighting the good fight.

T’Challa came to see them off, handing a silver case full of the promised equipment to Romanoff and behaving as though their conversation had never happened as he explained what each device was for. He had decided immediately not to accompany them on this venture.

“Secretly harboring fugitives is one matter,” he had explained as soon as the question was raised. “To have a king break into an international penitentiary… It would be irresponsible to my people, and it would leave you without a haven to return to.” It was a fair point, and given that they were already asking a lot as it was, they agreed it would be for the best to leave the Black Panther behind.

“You’re sure all of this is going to work?” inquired Bucky, raising a skeptical eyebrow at his brief technological tutorial. Rather than offense, T’Challa’s face only registered a look of mild amusement.

“Rest assured, Sergeant, you are carrying the most advanced equipment on or off the market in espionage.”

_Which…really didn’t answer my question._

“And Ross is _definitely_ in Berlin right now?” pressed Steve. That one detail had the power to tank the entire operation before it even began if they were wrong.

“He arrived this morning for the proceedings against Zemo,” T’Challa confirmed with a nod. “I shall be leaving shortly after you to join them. It would be suspicious if I were not present for the sentencing of the man who killed Wakanda’s previous king.” He didn’t mention the fact that it was his father, and Bucky had to admire his professional detachment.

Romanoff nodded immediately. “It’ll give you a good alibi. What happens at the Raft won’t stay secret long, and it’s best if you’re seen publicly to avoid potential accusations.”

“My thoughts exactly, Miss Romanoff. You shall have free access to this facility coming back into Wakanda, but I will not be gone very long.” His eyes flicked to Bucky as he said this last piece, and Bucky inclined his head a fraction in acknowledgement.

Steve nodded, reaching into the freshly painted helicopter and retrieving a shipping box. With a glance between it and T’Challa, he held it out to the king. “While you’re in Berlin… I didn’t want to send it from here to avoid him knowing where it came from, so if you could send this as soon as you can…”

“Of course, Captain.” T’Challa accepted the box and, in his curiosity, Bucky couldn’t help peering closer to see that it was addressed to—

“’Tony _Stank_ ’?” he snorted, shifting incredulous eyes onto the clearly exasperated captain.

“Natasha thought the ‘r’ wasn’t defined enough.”

“Well, that’s certainly plenty defined.” The look Romanoff shot him was a mixture of smugness and amusement, and he had a feeling he’d won at least one point in whatever game of trust they were playing.

Package in hand, T’Challa bid them a final farewell and took his leave as the other three climbed into the helicopter, Romanoff taking the pilot’s seat. As she was going through the startup sequence, Steve slid the door closed and turned an intense eye on Bucky. _Not this again…_

“Are you—“

“Yes, I’m sure, Steve.” He’d only told him so approximately twelve times since that morning. “Just because I’m down an arm doesn’t mean I can’t do this.”

“I know that,” Steve defended automatically, frowning. “I just wanted to give you the out. You don’t _have_ to do this.”

“Little late for that, don’t you think, Cap?” Romanoff called from the front, and Bucky shrugged pointedly in agreement.

Before Steve could open his mouth to challenge that, Bucky cut him off. “I know I don’t _have_ to. But when I said I was following you, I meant it, Steve. Let me do that much, okay?” he finished softly. “It’s my choice.”

Something shifted in Steve’s expression and a mixture of sadness, regret, and acceptance flickered through his eyes in rapid succession before he nodded somberly. “Okay, Buck.”

Thinking of something to take his mind off whatever was making him look like a kicked golden retriever, Bucky considered a moment before changing the subject.

“So, do I get to know what was in that package?”

It didn’t exactly make Steve smile, but he looked better than before as he began his explanation. That had to be enough for now.

By the time Romanoff was telling them they would be approaching the Raft shortly, they had nailed down the details of the plan so many times Bucky thought even the chair couldn’t erase it from his mind. (It wasn’t a theory he was willing to test.) Steve plucked the silver case from where he had stashed it under the seat and flipped the lid open on the floor in front of them. Inside was a wide array of technology that Bucky was already familiar with from T’Challa’s brief introductory lesson on Sneaky Wakandan Tech, and both he and Steve grabbed what they needed to outfit themselves with for this to work. They had already dressed appropriately before leaving Wakanda: Steve in dark brown slacks and a black shirt and jacket, and Bucky in jeans with a T-shirt advertising a musician he’d never heard of and a black blazer. There was a sling in the case that he slung around his neck and let dangle on his left side. If T’Challa was right, it would be filled out soon enough. The final touch was just covering their faces, and then they were as ready as they were going to be.

_Sometimes it was easier being a ghost._

As they approached Absolute Middle of Nowhere (located in the vast non-country of Ocean), Steve switched places with Romanoff and took over while Bucky secured her wrists behind her back with heavy metal handcuffs. It was the one part of their plan that none of them had cared for, but there was nothing to be done for it, and they couldn’t come up with a better way to do this without blowing their cover.

_< You ready for this?>_ she asked him in Russian, not bothering to as much as glance over her shoulder. He wasn’t sure if he should be indignant that she felt the need to ask or complimented that she apparently cared enough to.

_< I guess we’ll find out,>_ was all he could settle on for an answer. _< Are you?>_

She chuckled delicately under her breath. _< Yeah. It’ll be fun.>_

_This lady’s definition of fun is definitely not everyone else’s._ The thought made him infinitely appreciative that she was on _their_ side this time.

The radio crackled to life just as they finished: “Yes, sir. You’re cleared for landing.”

Romanoff positioned herself on the edge of the seat while Bucky moved in behind Steve—or, well, not _quite_ Steve anymore.

Secretary Ross looked up at him with a nod and said, “You might want to activate that, Buck.”

_This shit’s stranger than fiction._

Bucky pressed his finger to the sensor on his temple, feeling a shiver go down his spine as the synthetic mask booted up and spread the illusion over his body. It was the strangest sensation: he was still _him_ underneath it all, but it was like there was another layer just over his skin that he knew made him look like someone else entirely. The feeling was even more bizarre when he looked down to see a full sleeve on his left side and a hand poking out of the sling that had previously been empty. He knew it wasn’t really his; he was well aware of the fact that beneath this disguise, there was just a metal shoulder and then nothing but air. He _knew_ that. But it was still oddly satisfying to watch that arm move when he told it to, just the way his metal one would have if it was still attached.

And really, much as he hated irony, it was pretty damn poetic that Tony Stark was the one giving him a left arm to use. Sort of.

“This is…” Steve’s— _Ross’s_ —voice drew his attention as Steve turned his attention back to flying.

“Weird?”

“Incredibly.”

“You two might want to act a little less like _you_ and a little more like Ross and Stark,” warned Romanoff from behind them. “Stop finishing each other’s sentences and start treating each other like contemptuous assholes.”

Steve smirked, muttering a quick, “Yes, ma’am,” before all of their conversation halted at the sight before them.

The Raft, as it turned out, wasn’t just a prison—it was a goddamn _island_. Where nothing had been a moment ago, the behemoth rose out of the depths, water sluicing out of vents in the sides and flooding off the top to reveal a helipad that made no logical sense—why would you land on top of something that was just going to go back underwater anyway?

His answer came a moment later when the helipad split down the center into two wide, circular doors that opened outward to reveal a series of metal platforms and staircases leading down to the levels below. Steve expertly hovered over top of the opening and lowered them down steadily. Bucky’s eyes were trained on the grated platforms on all sides, waiting for the moment when they were found out and soldiers flooded in, guns blazing. He knew it wouldn’t happen, that they hadn’t given anyone any reason to suspect that the helicopter with “Stark Industries” emblazoned down the size was anything untoward, or that the people inside were anyone other than who they said they were. Paranoia had kept him alive thus far, though, so it wasn’t a habit he was overwhelmingly eager to break.

As they touched down on the _real_ internal helipad, what little grey light had managed to filter its way through the doors was cut off as they closed above them and, presumably, the facility was lowered back into the sea.

Bucky met Steve’s eyes one last time, a silent affirmation that this would all (hopefully) be okay, before he turned and slid open the side door. From what Steve and Romanoff had told him, Stark didn’t seem like the kind of guy to wait for anyone or help drag his friend into a pit of despair, so he left the rest to Steve as he hopped down.

There was only a brief moment for recon, and he took advantage while Steve hauled Romanoff out of the helicopter and started talking to one of the soldiers that had come to meet them. The upper hatch was indeed closed; there were no control panels in this part of the building, which meant that the switch to open the doors would likely be in a centralized security station somewhere in the facility. He would be able to tell where once they got out of the hangar. The number of guards who had come to meet them was minimal due to who they thought had arrived, but they were moderately armed nonetheless. Each guard carried one handgun in a hip holster, a Kalashnikov in hand, and two knives—one hip, one ankle. The personnel clearly were not concerned about escapees, although among the team they were liberating, the only one with any real potential for damage while unarmed was Maximoff. It was most likely that they had her in isolation, however, and he knew well from his days with Hydra that there were ways to control or even extinguish enhanced abilities in certain conditions.

Weapons, however, were not what ultimately drew Bucky’s eye—there was something else they each carried that told him far more about the facility than anything else he could have observed. Each soldier had a small canvas case strapped to their left leg.

_Now what, I wonder, could they need gas masks for?_

“Awfully quiet over there, Stark.”

Bucky whirled around to face Steve with as much graceful yet obnoxious flamboyance as he could. It wasn’t easy without the added weight of another arm, but he managed just fine. Smirk firmly in place, he replied, “Just admiring the scenery. I _love_ what you guys have done with the place. Very…minimalist? Or would you call this industrial chic? I can never quite tell.”

Based on the barely suppressed eye rolls around the room, he assumed he was doing a spot-on Stark impression.

Steve leveled a very appropriate flat, disdainful look at him before gesturing for the guards to take Romanoff ahead of them. “Put her in with Maximoff,” he ordered as they made their way up the narrow staircase leading into the main section of the facility.

Falling into step beside him, Bucky casually commented, “While I’m here, I may as well check in on my friends. Make sure you’ve been holding up your end of the whole feeding them deal.”

“I can assure you they’re being well looked after,” replied Steve condescendingly. Two soldiers broke off from their group with Romanoff as soon as they reached the top of the stairs, going left down a long, curved corridor. Steve and Bucky followed the remaining two straight toward a single elevator.

“I’m sure you have. Still, it would be nice to know they’re getting yard time. It would be a shame for Wilson to lose that lovely tan.”

Steve huffed out an aggravated sigh and made a show of stopping in the middle of the hallway, the guards pausing ahead of them a few paces. Bucky was glad Stark wasn’t one to keep a straight face because Steve’s was absolutely _priceless._

“Okay, Stark,” he finally conceded after a long moment of silent consideration. It sounded more like he was agreeing to let a toddler have a second ice cream than anything else, but from what Romanoff had told Bucky about Stark, he supposed it wasn’t far off the mark. “You can have a look at the security feed and make sure everything meets your approval.”

_Ooh, nice sarcasm, Stevie._

Bucky raised his mobile hand with a wide smile. “This is all I ask.”

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Steve turned back to the guards and gestured toward the elevator. “Gentlemen, lead the way.”

It was too damn easy. The two guards accompanying them nodded immediately and continued on their course, leading Steve and Bucky into the elevator. Each soldier took out a key and inserted it simultaneously into the ports on either side of the doors once they closed, turning two clicks to the right on the count of three. Bucky glanced at Steve and got a nearly imperceptible nod in return as they both memorized the details. His eyes swept over the enclosed space as the elevator smoothly began its descent once the keys were removed, cataloging the air vents around them. The gas masks had piqued his curiosity, and it seemed that his preliminary suppositions were proving to be true: the whole facility was outfitted with some kind of airborne agent that would most likely render a subject unconscious should they somehow manage to escape from the guards or their cells. It explained the gas masks, the relative lack of heavy armaments, and the fact that there were air ducts not just in the ceiling like normal elevators, but also in the _floor_.

_Checkmate, fellas._

They barely felt when the elevator came to a halt, and the door swept open silently to reveal what was undoubtedly the command center for the entire facility. There was a wall of monitors on the far side, the camera feeds flipping throughout the building to show the various cell blocks, corridors, and offices. With the short look he got, Bucky was surprised to see that there weren’t really as many men guarding the facility on the monitors as he would have expected. Then again, he wasn’t quite sure just how _legally_ sanctioned this place was, which made employment opportunities a bitch. A semi-circular desk sat in front of the camera feeds, overlooking the various stations underneath the monitors that controlled each monitor. The desk itself was littered with files, but more importantly, it was some kind of hub. There were keyboards and flashing buttons on every surface, and they didn’t just control the cameras like the operator stations did. No, if he and Steve were going to take this place, then _that_ was where they needed to be.

And seven guards really weren’t going to stand in the way of two super soldiers.

Even without a shield and an arm, Steve and Bucky made quick work of the men in the room. They weren’t exactly expecting Tony Stark (sans suit) and Secretary Ross to beat the shit out of them, so they couldn’t be blamed entirely for their lack of preparation. As soon as the elevator doors were closed, Steve grabbed the two guards who had escorted them by their collars and slammed their heads together. They dropped to the floor like rocks while Bucky moved forward and smashed the soldier at the console’s head against the metal desk, leaving him slumped over the contraption.

_Four to go._

Steve kicked a rolling chair out from under one of the stations, catching a guard in the knees before Bucky’s foot caught him in the face. Following through with the momentum of his kick, Bucky grabbed the man before he hit the ground and threw him into the two guards behind him, sending them careening back into the wall. While Steve knocked them both out with two quick blows to the face, Bucky felt the telltale blunt end of a gun barrel against his temple. _How the hell did the bastard get behind me?_

“On your knees!” the last soldier shouted. He sounded nervous, and rightfully so given that six of his comrades had gone down in a heap in the face of, by all appearances, an injured billionaire and retirement-age pencil pusher.

Steve, hands rising gradually, turned in a slow arc to face them. “Put the gun down, son.”

“Secretary Ross, I am _ordering_ you to get on your knees.” The prick emphasized his point by thrusting the barrel of the gun further into Bucky’s skin.

Twitching his eyebrows up in recognition of the irony of the situation, Steve raised a hand to his temple and disabled his disguise. The old man with the hard lines of disapproval written into his face melted away until it was just Steve standing there, hands up and looking over Bucky’s shoulder with an expression that screamed, _“You were saying?”_

The second the pressure against his head abated in the guard’s shock, Buck whirled around and jabbed his right elbow hard into the man’s kidney, divesting him of his firearm and cracking him over the skull with it. The man barely had time to hit the floor before Bucky was already turning to the console, slipping the gun into the waistband of his jeans and disabling his own disguise.

“You’re welcome,” taunted Steve, moving toward the wall of monitors and using one of the stations to flip through the feeds until he had the imprisoned Avengers and Romanoff under surveillance.

“Hey,” grumbled Bucky, moving the now empty sling around behind him as he pored over the command keys on the desk. “I had ‘im on the ropes.”

“You just keep tellin’ yourself that.”

“I swear, Steve, if I had two arms… Aha.”

“What do you have?” Back to business, Steve came around to his right and peered over his shoulder, frowning down at the system before them.

“You’re gonna want to grab a gas mask,” Bucky remarked rather than answering, reaching over to the guard he’d left lying over the console and digging through his side pouch. There was a mask inside that only covered the lower half of the face, which meant that whatever gas they were using in the system was only damaging when inhaled and wouldn’t be harmful when coming into contact with the eyes. _Stupid decision for a high-security penitentiary, but hey, makes our job easier._

Steve wasted no time in obeying, knowing their time was short if anyone happened to enter the room in the meantime, but still asked, “What are you planning?”

“They’ve got some kind of gas rigged up to this place so that if someone gets out, they can put them to sleep and get them back in their cell.”

Realization dawned on Steve’s features. “Which is why they aren’t more heavily armed.”

“Correct. We just need to hope that they didn’t put it in the cells too, or you’re going to be doing some heavy lifting on the way out of here.”

“ _I_ am?” Steve scoffed at him with a sidelong glance. Bucky shot him a quick grin and gestured to his empty sleeve.

“Don’t patronize the disabled veteran, Steve. It’s not nice. Now get the damn mask on,” he added, cutting Steve off before he could make what Bucky was sure would be an impressively snarky retort. “Haven’t got all day.”

Shaking his head, Steve finished yanking a mask out from under one of the many prone forms in the room. He also took the opportunity to relieve their two escorts of their elevator keys, pocketing them as he fitted the gas mask to his face. Bucky frowned down at his in distaste for a moment before he pulled it into place, uncomfortably reminded of the mask ( _glorified muzzle, more like_ ) that Hydra had him wear on most of his missions. Usually they hadn’t bothered, but when they sent him out during the day or in crowded locations where he could be identified and described to law enforcement, they hadn’t taken any chances.

While Bucky determined the proper sequence of keys (which wasn’t difficult since most of them were already labeled in codes Bucky was pretty sure had been broken decades ago), Steve stepped back up to the monitors. “Natasha’s in the cell block with Wanda, but they haven’t put her in a cell yet.”

“Doesn’t matter, there’s no time to wait.” Bucky initiated the sequence, but Steve’s apparent disapproval had him hovering over the launch button in exasperation. “If she’s as good as a Black Widow is supposed to be, she’ll figure it out."

Steve didn’t like it, that much was written all over his face even underneath his mask, but he gave a stiff nod regardless and turned his attention back to the cameras. “Do it.”

Without hesitation, Bucky jammed his thumb down on the launch command and watched as a hazy silver mist flowed into the room from the grates beneath their feet. Observing the multiple scenes unfolding before them on the camera displays, he watched as the same happened throughout the facility, dropping unprepared guards left and right. Some of them were smart enough to see the gas and realize what was happening, but they were too late to get their gas masks out and on their faces before they were already feeling the effects. Within seconds, most of the guards were on the ground and the rest were well on their way.

On Romanoff’s monitor, Bucky could tell the instant she realized what was happening. Using the alarmed distraction of her escorts to her advantage, she pulled off a complicated series of moves that even the high tech camera feed couldn’t quite follow without lagging and ended up with her hands still cuffed in front of her, fingers around one guard’s throat and thighs around the other. She flipped the three of them sideways and kicked out to incapacitate one guard at the same time as she smashed the other’s face into the grate beneath them. Her own face was turning red, and Bucky was impressed to find that through all that, she had managed to hold her breath long enough to dig a gas mask out. Once she was able to breathe the filtered air, she turned to look directly into the camera and gave them the thumbs up before moving towards Maximoff’s cell.

_Okay. So she’s good._

Steve didn’t stop to admire her performance, although Bucky supposed he had probably seen it enough times by now to be immune, and pointed instead to the various glass-faced cells his friends were in. “Looks like the gas doesn’t work in there.”

Scoffing, Bucky shook his head and turned back to the command panel. “These guys could have thought this place through so much better.”

“Well, I guess they figured they weren’t going to get very many people looking to break _in_ instead of out,” shrugged Steve, removing his mask as Bucky disabled the gas and the room cleared.

“Obviously they’ve never met you.”

“They did their best.” Steve grinned, tossing him one of the keys and stepping back into the elevator. “Natasha can handle Wanda. Everyone else is on detention level eight.”

Bucky dumped his mask on top of the console and followed suit, and a moment later they were on their way down once more until they reached the cell blocks. As awful as the place was, complete with unconscious bodies littering the floors, it still didn’t give him quite the same sinking feeling that going back to the Hydra base in Siberia had. Hell, this place was like a vacation home by comparison even in spite of its many similarities.

They made their way through the corridors, Steve more careful than Bucky not to step on anyone, until they reached the R3-8 block. Outside the cells, the only light came from sporadically placed emergency bulbs. Apparently whoever had constructed this monstrosity believed that if a situation was bad enough to warrant the use of gas, they may as well turn off the lights so that their unconscious escapees couldn’t see where they _weren’t_ going. Whatever Hydra may have been, at least they were more efficient than these morons.

As Steve made his way in to assess the situation and release his friends, Bucky remained just outside the cell block, keeping guard. It all seemed too easy; he could feel himself growing increasingly on edge the longer they went without any opposition.

The clanks and hisses of door locks being released did _not_ startle him, and Bucky gritted his teeth as he paced down the corridor a ways, nudging bodies with his toes to make sure they were still out cold. There were a few grunts, but so far everyone was alive and very much incapacitated. This was _really_ the best they could do?

_Spoke too soon_! he thought, hearing the light metallic whoosh of a knife cutting through the air and throwing his arm up to block right before it plunged into his chest. He pushed his attacker back a few paces and momentarily assessed the situation: one attacker, no firearms, one knife, gas mask firmly in place. Apparently there was only one asshole smart enough to get to his mask in time to stay on his feet. There wasn’t time for him to gather any further information as the man went on the offensive once more, swinging the knife wildly in front of him and forcing Bucky back as he tried to find an opening. It wasn’t that his opponent was that _good_ , really, but he was fast and Bucky was still thrown off enough by his missing appendage to be easily knocked off balance.

He ducked back and back, allowing the man to gain ground as calm descended in his mind. This was nothing—this was just a normal human. The Winter Soldier had fought super humans the likes of which the world would never see again besides himself and Steve if they had anything to say about it. He was so much more than this mere soldier.

Suddenly there was no Raft, no prisoners, no Steve—just his attacker and the Winter Soldier.

The man swung wide, almost but not quite nicking his face in the process, and his hand shot out to grasp the guard’s wrist tightly. He yanked him forward and down once—twice—knocking the knife from his fingers and using the momentum to flip his assailant over his knee and onto his back. The man was persistent; he brought his knee up and managed to catch an _incredibly_ sensitive region, but there was no explosion of pain. There was just the distant numbness as he caught the man’s leg on its second attempt to incapacitate him and bent it in the wrong direction. The muffled sound of a scream broke the silence in his mind fleetingly before a punch caught him on the side of the head and he overbalanced, landing on his left shoulder as his right hand shot out ineffectually to break his fall.

Despite the obviously broken leg, the guard managed to drag himself along the floor and had the knife back in hand, lunging forward. He rolled to the side, using his lack of an arm to his advantage, and caught the man’s arm between his own knees. The guard fell to the side with him and they ended up in a mass of tangled limbs on the ground, his remaining arm locked around his opponent’s windpipe and cutting off all airflow.

“Bucky, stop!”

 A familiar voice cut through the soundless fog in his mind, and Bucky abruptly found himself on the floor of the Raft, breathing heavily as the man crushed to his chest struggled to breathe at all. Bucky immediately shoved the man away from him and scrambled back along the floor to crouch by the wall, chest heaving as the other man’s choked sputtering filled the silence around them. He wasn’t there—he wasn’t the Winter Soldier anymore. He wasn’t underground in some Hydra prison; he wasn’t going back to the chair or cryo.

He was in the Raft. He was with Steve.

He was so fucking embarrassed.

This hadn’t happened in nearly two years, since he’d pulled enough of his head together to understand the difference between fighting like a monster and fighting like a man. He hadn’t lost himself without the use of trigger words, only in the dead of night when the ghosts of his past came to visit him and plague him with their torment.

_Pierce never needed to use the words, though. Not once._

Steve’s voice reached him like he was speaking from the other end of a long tunnel, asking if he was okay, if he was with them. All Bucky could manage was a nod, instantly ashamed of himself for thinking that at least Steve hadn’t tried to intervene— _at least I didn’t hurt Steve again._

The other Avengers kept their distance from him as Steve guided them out of the cell blocks and back down to the hangar bay where Romanoff and Maximoff were already waiting for them. The former took one look at him before turning inquisitive eyes on Steve, who ignored the silent question and ordered everyone into the helicopter. They had opened the helipad hatch before leaving the command room, and Romanoff took the controls as the rest filed in and squeezed together in the back.

There was quiet conversation as they took off and left the Raft behind, but Bucky didn’t hear what was said. From the looks of things, Maximoff wasn’t engaged in the discussion either. He just couldn’t find the energy to wonder what was going on in her head, though, his own mind beset with thoughts of monsters and ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cell block information is directly from the movie, but I did take some creative liberties with what the labels on their cells meant for the sake of the story.
> 
> Thank you so much to those of you who have left kudos, comments, subscribed, or bookmarked this story. Your feedback is greatly appreciated, and it's always nice to know I'm not shouting into the void! There's only one more chapter left of this story, and then I'll be posting a Harry Potter/Hogwarts AU if anyone is interested.


	4. The Best Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where we sync up with the mid-credits scene, so the dialogue at the end is taken verbatim from the film and not at all mine!

T’Challa hadn’t returned by the time they got back to Wakanda early the next morning. A brief spike of disappointment struck Bucky, but he supposed it was probably for the best. There were still so many things to do, not least of which was discussing his decision with Steve—a decision that, now more than ever, he was entirely convinced was for the best. Cryo wouldn’t be forever, after all.

Regardless, the conversation with Steve would have to wait as they arrived at the complex they would be calling home for an indeterminate length of time. There were Avengers to manage—rooms, food, debriefing. So much had happened while Bucky and Steve were in Siberia, but it had been easy to forget that the world had kept spinning. Sam told them when they arrived back in Wakanda that after Scott’s impressive (and really, _really_ stupid) move in Leipzig, the fighting had mostly stopped. Only Stark and Rhodes, predictably, tried to turn the tide in their favor by chasing after the quinjet Steve and Bucky had commandeered. Some shoddy aim on Vision’s part had nearly killed Sam but ended up grounding Rhodes instead, leaving him with injuries Sam could only speculate about. It was clear that he felt guilty; survivor’s guilt was a bitch. Even Bucky had to feel bad for the guy. Steve emphasized that it wasn’t his fault, though, and even Wanda came back to herself long enough to insist that Rhodes fared better in the suit than Sam would have had Vision’s aim been more precise.

“I know,” Sam had agreed wearily. “Doesn’t make it much easier, though.”

Steve had nodded in understanding, squeezing Sam’s shoulder for a moment. “Sometimes bad things happen and it’s not anyone’s fault. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

_Big words coming from the guy who literally blames himself for_ everything _._

After everyone dispersed to get settled, Bucky found himself on his own. It wasn’t that he was trying to avoid Steve or the conversation he knew they needed to have—okay, maybe he was avoiding it a _little_ —but he needed a moment to get his head screwed on straight again. The exhaustion from the stress of the last few days wasn’t helping at all, but he didn’t want to sleep. Who knew how long he was going to be sleeping once T’Challa returned? The last thing he needed was to relive the horrors when he had the bittersweet blankness of cryo to look forward to. _More irony, how nice._

So he found himself wandering the compound, hand in the pocket of the jeans he still hadn’t changed out of as he watched the world outside the windows. The sun was nearing the middle of the sky by now, illuminating the mists over the trees stretching out as far as even a super sniper’s eyes could see. It was beautiful, but it was lonely. The world spun on, but from here it felt as though that was somewhere else, an entirely different planet or galaxy far removed from where they found themselves now. He stopped in front of one of the windows and just stared out at it all. It was no wonder Wakanda had managed to stay out of the limelight for so long; in spite of his reservations, it was surprisingly easy to escape here and pretend it was the only place on earth.

But solitude was apparently overrated and he heard the footsteps approaching behind him long before she was reflected in the glass.

“I hear you were another one of Hydra’s pet projects,” Maximoff murmured from just over his shoulder. Bucky didn’t turn, but a humorless chuckle managed to escape his lips.

“Did you see that inside my head?”

“No,” she replied. He could hear the smile in her voice. “Sam told me a little. How did you know about me?”

“Sam told me a little,” echoed Bucky.

It was a bit of a lie: Sam had told him a _lot_ in the car on their way to the airport, but he assumed they were playing on the side of propriety and that she was trying not to tell him she was well aware of everything he’d been involved in back in D.C. He figured he might as well show her the same courtesy.

He saw her reflection nod slightly. “It can be hard, knowing that there is something else in your head that you can’t always control.”

_Preaching to the choir, sister._

“I’ve come a long way since my days with Hydra,” she continued after a moment in which he couldn’t quite decide what to say and therefore remained silent. “I have Steve to thank for a lot of that.”

Smirking slightly, Bucky inclined his head. “Steve’s always had a thing for taking in strays.”

“From what I’ve heard, he learned that from someone very dear to him.”

There it was. Steve was careful not to overwhelm him with references to their past, something Bucky appreciated. It was nice to reminisce like they had in Siberia, or get a chuckle out of a few well-placed phrases they’d used decades ago. But Steve didn’t quiz him on what he remembered, nor did he ever try to impose anyone else’s personality on Bucky. It was a sign of understanding and acceptance, a sign that Steve _knew_ he wasn’t the same and would never force him to try to be. It was refreshing. Without all the Hydra programming in his head, it would have allowed him as fresh a start as he could manage.

Still, to be _reminded_ that he was not the same person who took tiny, sickly Steve Rogers to be his best friend and, in turn, became his self-appointed protector before _and_ after the serum… It hurt in places he tried very hard not to examine too closely.

When his silence had stretched too long to be anything other than awkward, Maximoff cleared her throat and Bucky thought she would take a hint and leave him to his thoughts. He was apparently wrong.

“Did you know I had a brother?”

_Well, that was…random._

“Sam mentioned it,” he responded carefully. Sam had also mentioned what had happened to her brother, and it hadn’t been long enough ago that he would have expected her to discuss it with a relative stranger.

Maximoff took a deep breath. “He was…lazy. Arrogant. Completely irresponsible most of the time.” There was a slightly watery laugh, her tone affectionate in spite of her statement. “He would steal from the marketplace to impress pretty girls. I lost my temper with him so many times…” Her laugh was thinner this time, strained. “But he was still always my protector, my heart—my _everything_. Even when we grew up and went through hell. Even though he was obsessed—we _both_ were obsessed—with getting revenge against Stark. The bad things he’d done never made me love him less. He was still my world.”

Bucky thought he saw where she was going with this, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. Instead he deflected, “Your brother sounds like he was a good kid.”

“He wasn’t,” she laughed thickly and he couldn’t help chuckling along with her. “Neither of us was. But I think you would have liked him.”

Nodding, Bucky sighed, biting the corner of his lip as he fought to find the right words to say. “I haven’t been that guy for such a long time… I’m not even sure I know exactly who he is anymore,” he finally admitted, slow and hesitant. He felt like they were playing some kind of balancing game, a give-and-take. She’d handed him a piece of her soul. It was the least he could do to return the favor, much as it pained him to do it. “I don’t think…I don’t think I _can be_ the same person you’ve heard stories about.”

A gentle hand rested on his right shoulder, squeezing lightly, and Bucky took comfort from the unfamiliar contact. “No one says you have to be. To the people who love you, just being _you_ will be more than enough.”

Bucky smirked, aiming for levity. “Did Steve teach you that too?”

“He _is_ predictable, isn’t he?” snickered Maximoff in confirmation.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

She hummed softly, and they stood in companionable silence for another minute before she squeezed his shoulder one last time and stepped back. Her retreating footsteps stopped momentarily and her reflection turned back to say, “Barnes?”

Bucky twisted slightly, just enough to peer over his shoulder at her, and waited.

“Just so you know, as someone who has seen it _inside his head_ ,” she echoed his words with a smirk, “I think he is not the same person either.”

Then she was gone.

Sighing, Bucky turned back to the window and rubbed his hand roughly over his face. He stood there for a while longer and tried not to think too hard about their conversation, but his mind kept turning to her last words. A small bubble of hope began to inflate in his chest, one that he had attempted to leave no room for but failed miserably. Nothing she said was new to him—these thoughts had visited him many times, late at night when the screams of the dead finally abated enough for him to find some semblance of peace in his shithole apartment. Could he be someone new? Could he find some way to balance Bucky Barnes with the Winter Soldier without losing one or the other? Was he worthy enough to put the shadows of his past behind him? He’d sincerely doubted it up to this point—he wasn’t sure he would ever fully believe he had the right to such thoughts.

To hear someone else say the words that had haunted his mind all this time made a difference, though. A small one, but a difference nonetheless. If someone else saw the same signs he did, did that mean he wasn’t as crazy as he thought? Or that the other person was just as certifiable?

He hoped for the former, but he wouldn’t hold his breath. Not until his head was fixed.

That thought brought him back to his senses, and he turned away from the window and the echoes of Maximoff’s acceptance to find Steve.

He was with Sam in his suite with the door open, the pair of them speaking in low voices when Bucky knocked on the doorjamb. They fell silent as they turned to see him standing there, Steve offering him a small smile and motioning for him to come in. Sam excused himself pretty quickly, but the uncharacteristically friendly clap on the shoulder Bucky got as he passed to exit the room told Bucky that he had probably been at least a part of their conversation.

_Why am I not surprised, Steve. Gimme a break._

“Hey.”

Bucky nodded, muttering a nearly inaudible, “Hey,” in return as he seated himself at the small table in the corner. Steve stared at him from where he was perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to speak. Part of him wished Steve would make the first move here, but Bucky _was_ the one who had come to find _him_ , so he figured it was only fair.

Besides, Steve had never been one for bullshit. It was better to yank off the bandage quickly.

“When T’Challa gets back, I’m going back into cryo.”

For a moment, Bucky wondered if he had spoken at all. Steve simply continued to stare at him, his eyes slightly wider than they had been before and his mouth ajar. When enough time had passed that Bucky considered checking to see if Steve had suffered a stroke or something, the latter’s eyebrows drew together as he fully processed that statement.

“Is this about what happened in the Raft?” he asked softly, his eyes locked searchingly on Bucky’s.

“No.” He could tell Steve didn’t quite believe him and added, “We discussed it before.”

“When?”

“While you and Romanoff were getting everything put together.”

Steve didn’t answer him, his head bobbing slowly as he put together the timeline of events in his mind. Bucky had to be a little proud of him: he didn’t look surprised at all. He also wasn’t jumping to change Bucky’s mind, for which he was infinitely grateful. As determined as he was to follow through on his decision, not having Steve’s full support had the potential to shatter his resolve.

“Why, Bucky?” Not an argument, just a question. Not seeking justification, just trying to _understand_. He didn’t deserve a friend as good as Steve—never had, never would.

Sighing heavily, Bucky ran his hand through the long tendrils of his hair, tucking them behind his ear as he shook his head. “It’s too dangerous to have me walking around. I’m a weapon, Steve, a time bomb. Zemo is in custody, so the U.N. has anything he was carrying when Stark brought him in.”

“The book,” interrupted Steve.

“The book,” Bucky confirmed with a nod. “Until it’s destroyed or we figure out how to fix whatever messed up shit they put inside my head, my mind isn’t my own. I can’t… I _won’t_ take that risk. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I don’t want to kill anyone else,” he added, nearly whispering by the end.

They sat in silence for an immeasurable moment before Steve finally spoke again, his tone indicating he already knew the answer to his own question. “Is this really the only way?”

“It’s the best way. It’s the _only_ way that’s guaranteed to keep me away from anything that might trigger another episode.”

It was obviously not the answer Steve wanted even if it _was_ the one he was expecting. His face soured slightly, but he hid it well; if Bucky hadn’t spent so many years gaining fluency in Steve Rogers Expressions, he would probably have missed it himself. Steve buried his honest reaction, though, and looked back at Bucky with a nod of acceptance.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” He looked a lot more resolute than he sounded.

“What, that’s it? No arguing? No, ‘dammit, Bucky, there’s gotta be another way’?” teased Bucky, grinning in spite of himself as Steve laughed quietly under his breath.

“Nah, not this time,” he sighed, eyes sparkling with emotions he refused to let himself show. All to support Bucky. _Hell of a guy_. “You deserve the dignity of your choice.”

That didn’t stop him from asking one more time, though, after Bucky had bid his farewell to Steve’s friends (“ _Your friends too,” Sam had assured him, rolling his eyes and pulling him into a quick one-armed hug_ ) and made his final arrangements with T’Challa. After he’d had a chance to shower and panic privately in the comfort of his own suite’s bathroom. After he’d met with the doctors and let them put an IV of sedatives in his hand to prep him for the procedure while every nerve was _screaming_ for him to run the other way.

After he’d gotten his first look at the cryo chamber and thought, _This doesn’t look so bad._

After he’d said his temporary goodbyes to the world and stepped into the place where he would finally, with any luck, get some rest, Steve walked in with his hands in his pockets. He was still dressed in the clothes he’d worn to the Raft, not even bothering to clean up until Bucky was situated. He gave the cryo chamber an apprehensive look as he entered the room before he shifted his focus entirely to Bucky, the side of his mouth pulling up into the same familiar smirk.

“You sure about this?” he asked. It wasn’t really a question—he _knew_ Bucky’s decision—but he was giving him one final opportunity to change his mind.

Bucky swallowed, casting a nervous glance at the device across from him. “I can’t trust my own mind,” was all he could think to say, turning back to Steve with a strained, fleeting smile. “So until they figure out how to get this stuff outta my head, I think going back under is the best thing. For everybody,” he added with a significant look at the man standing beside him. The best friend he’d ever had.

Now he just had to keep telling himself that long enough to get in the tube and let them turn him into a popsicle.

Time blurred from there. One moment it was just him and Steve as it always had been, and then there were technicians moving to their stations and telling him that they were ready to proceed when he was. One moment he was sitting there, staring at the cryo chamber as though it might bite him, and then he was on his feet moving toward it.

Steve put a hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t to stop him, much as a small part of Bucky wished he _would_. That part of him wanted Steve to tell him this was unacceptable, that they would find another way that didn’t involve Bucky going back under, that they would make this better and everything would go back to the way it was.

But Bucky would never want Steve to lie to him, and Steve knew that, so he didn’t. They looked at each other for a few seconds before Bucky turned his back on the machine and wrapped his arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him close for just a moment. As Steve’s arms snaked around his waist, it wasn’t lost on him that their first hug in over seventy years would also be his last human contact for…well, hopefully not _too_ long.

After they stepped apart, Bucky was ushered into place by a technician who then fastened straps across his body. They weren’t too tight, loose enough that he could break through them if he chose, but just sturdy enough to keep him upright when the procedure started.

The technician stepped aside, but Bucky couldn’t look back at Steve where he was watching the proceedings. This wasn’t goodbye—he wouldn’t _let it be._

As the glass encasement rose to seal him inside, he closed his eyes instead and felt the sedatives finally taking effect.

Air release.

_Cold._

Peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I had considered writing an epilogue picking up where I *hope* we'll find Bucky again when he wakes, but I decided not to for now. I'm open to writing it if anyone is interested in that, though, so put it in the comments if you'd like!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the story and will stick around for my next piece, "World So Cold": a Hogwarts AU and the first of a series. The first chapter will be up on Tuesday!


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